Tag Archives: moriarty

The road to recovery

I suppose I’ve come off the rails a bit recently, neglecting this blog, my adventures in adultery, losing my lust for life and libido in the process. Don’t get me wrong, there have been flirtations, fleeting embraces and some incredible head (courtesy of a surprise visit by my older lover). But somewhere in my brain that switch hasn’t flipped for some time. I long to lose myself in sheer physical, sensual arousal.

I had a good half hour of thinking time, driving across London this morning. I drove past the pub where I met Moriarty before going to the swinging club all those months ago. It crossed my mind to go there one evening, to be touched, sucked, fucked out of this numbness. I spent an evening with Moriarty this week. He cooked, we talked, drank wine, touched. It felt like a thaw, a long inhalation of breath. Something began to shift, lift.

The next night I saw the economist, ironically he has broken up with his girlfriend. We had dinner, though he remained on a work conference call throughout. We went to a gig, hands touching briefly, the alcohol loosening our inhibitions. We spent time at a bar afterwards. I told him how much he meant to me. We kissed. But it is clear to me that he is not someone who can cheat. And I cannot bear to witness him find another girlfriend again, standing on the sidelines as a substitute.

And so, I am reaching the conclusion that the road to recovery lies ahead. A new lover. A new lust for life, for living, for fucking, for feeling. I am hopeful.

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The need to be out of control

The last 7 days have been, perhaps, some of the most delectably decadent days I’ve had. From my first swinging club and orgy, to indie night with Moriarty and the economist, to sampling the ‘fetish’ scene, being spanked by some guy in a pub, exchanging numbers with three very interesting men, one of whom I sat next to on a flight, to being driven by a cab driver who wanked whilst speeding me to a weekend of partying with Moriarty, the economist and his girlfriend and dancing with a beautiful older woman.

I am exhausted, yet not satiated. I can feel the pull, the drag, the need to cast off all restraints and plummet head first into an abyss of abandon. The more I sample, the more I crave. Perhaps this is some form of self-destruction, but already, my mind is planning my next project. There are a number of candidates to choose from. It is most definitely time to lose control.

 

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My first swinging experience

My brain is electric. I have just cycled the 30 minutes to work on auto-pilot. My mind will not stop. I keep thinking about last night. My first swinging experience. I feel compelled to write, to purge some of the imagery, the sensations, the smells.

Having made my excuses and left the husband on the sofa watching Saturday night tv, I walked to the bus stop. I just missed one bus and then missed a second as I walked to the next stop, at which point I hailed a cab to take me to the inconspicuous pub south of the river where I was to meet Moriarty. The pub was packed, the football was on. The air was thick with the smell of beer and sweat, a sea of red faced football fans leering, chanting, cheering. I ordered a large G&T and stepped outside to wait for Moriarty. He was late. I felt appropriately conspicuous in my red heels, fishnets and belted up raincoat. I had tried to distract myself with work all day long, but all the while I could sense the nervousness at the pit of my stomach. As the first gulps of gin took effect, I began to enjoy my heightened state of anticipation. He arrived in a taxi, looking incredibly dashing with his crisp white shirt and smart jacket. He apologised for choosing such a busy pub, went to order a beer and joined me outside. The cool fresh air helped keep my blushes hidden as he said I looked ‘pretty’. It felt rather odd hearing him say something like that.

We had a few hours before the club opened and so rapidly moved onto a less busy pub where we could sit and talk. As I ordered at the bar, he took a call from the economist asking whether he was free to meet for drinks. The irony of the situation was not lost on either of us. Over the next two drinks he ‘briefed’ me on what to expect. The rules of the club, the code we would use in case we wanted to escape a particular situation and finally the rules of our relationship. The rules are: touching, sucking, fondling is ok. Fucking is not. There will (apparently) be no intercourse between Moriarty and myself. I swung from feeling excited, to nervous, to terrified and finally just wanting to get it over and done with.

We took a taxi to the club. Funnily enough it is located on an industrial estate I shared an office on many years ago. Back then I had no idea what took place in those buildings at night. Now I know. The entrance was lit up with a red light, a large bouncer welcomed us in. We walked up a flight of stairs, arriving at the reception. Showing ID and paying for entrance we then deposited coats and phones in the cloakroom. A friendly middle aged woman greeted us and explained the layout of the club. It was relatively empty when we arrived and so we ordered some drinks and took a stroll around the various rooms: open rooms with beds, smaller, private rooms with glass fronted doors, one large room with a bed the size of four doubles put together and the ‘grope box’ (a cabin-like box with various holes intended for people to touch anonymously). We took our seats in the bar and watched as people arrived. I felt so shy and out of my depth that I locked my gaze on Moriarty. He was relaxed, in control of the situation. More and more people began to arrive, some danced, others sat and talked, there was a general buzz, but no action. Yet.

We walked around the rooms again, spotting the odd couple in embrace or seeing silhouetted figures through see-through curtains. Returning to the dance floor we watched as one woman bent forward to suck the cock of a man, whilst being fucked from behind by another and another woman masturbated her clit, their bodies moving to the music, oblivious to the crowd that had gathered to watch. They eventually moved into one of the ‘open rooms’ assuming positions on the bed. Others flocked the windows to watch. Moriarty took me by the hand and led me into the room. We stood against the wall, only a foot away from the bed and watched as more and more people joined the group. It was the first time I had ever seen people fucking, let alone 8 of them. Limbs interlinked, touched, groped, cocks were in mouths, in cunts and fingers fondled arses. We watched. It didn’t feel real. It felt like watching a screen, and not just the people, but me, standing there in a dark corner watching them. I did not feel real in that moment.

We returned to the bar and Moriarty asked if I was ok. He was so kind, so gentle, so concerned. Something flipped in my head. I ran my fingers up his thighs to his crotch. Now this is not something I am unaccustomed to, in fact, he and I have been indulging in public touching quite a lot recently. What was deliciously new was the feeling of liberation, of the freedom to touch his crotch, feeling his hard-on through his jeans without worrying about being caught. And so I did. I let my hands touch him, massage him a little. He moved his hand to part my legs and felt his way along the fishnet stockings to my fleshy thigh. I could feel that sense of abandon rising. That switch that flips. We walked around the various rooms again, seeing more and more bodies in various states of undress. Standing in a narrow hallway outside one of the smaller rooms we watched as four people fucked. Moriarty touched my leg, hitching my skirt up a little to gain access. As he touched my ass I was suddenly aware of another hand touching my other thigh. I closed my eyes for a second, my heart jumping into my throat and a cold heat gripped my body. We moved to the room with the enormous bed.

The room was packed, there must have been at least 10-12 people on the bed, their clothes and shoes strewn on the floor, another 15 people standing watching. Moriarty led me into the room, taking position in a corner. I stood frozen to the spot watching the mass of limbs, breasts, cocks. The air smelt heavy, thick of sex. I didn’t know you could smell sex. But with that many people in such an enclosed space you could not avoid it. I began to touch Moriarty’s cock, unbuttoning his trousers and taking him in my hands. He hitched up my skirt and touched me. I maintained eye contact with him, letting the music drown out the sounds of the others. Kneeling before him, amidst other’s discarded clothes, I took him my mouth. He has a beautiful cock, incredibly hard and a girth to make a girl melt. We moved to the bed. At every stage Moriarty always asked if I was ok, if I was happy to do it. He climbed onto the bed and helped me join him. Strangely, I did not want to take off my shoes. There was something disturbing about seeing everyone’s shoes scattered on the floor. And so I lay down next to him fully clothed and shoed. He pulled up my skirt and went down on me. I have not been touched for so long. It was an incredible sensation. I was conscious of the people standing just above my head watching the whole scene. Trying to concentrate on the incredible head Moriarty was giving, I closed my eyes, furrowed my brow and tried to block out the sound of others talking. Someone’s hand reached over and slid beneath my shirt, taking hold of my breast. My heart skipped a beat. Moriarty slipped his fingers inside me, fucking me hard. (But of course this is not actual ‘fucking’ according to the rules, so apparently that’s ok.) I was so close to climax but then the cerebral part of my brain kicked in and all I could think about was ‘what if someone steals my handbag whilst I have my eyes closed’. And so I didn’t come.

I assumed a position over Moriarty where I could give him a blow/hand job (and also keep an eye on my bag). As I leant over him, I was suddenly conscious of my skirt still being hitched up around my waist, and the fingers of another slipping inside me as I sucked him. I heard him say to another couple that it was my first time, and to ‘go easy’. I felt like such a clumsy school girl. A blond woman kissed me and said ‘You’re pretty’. Her partner asked Moriarty if he wanted to ‘swap’. He took me to one side and asked me how I felt about that. I couldn’t, the thought of being fucked by the stranger next to me felt wrong. It would be outside my safety net, without Moriarty. And so he declined their offer. I brought him to orgasm and he came over his stomach. I enjoyed watching him cum. And so did many others I think.

We moved back to the bar and ‘de-briefed’. I didn’t even recognise the couple who had propositioned us as they sat on the sofa next to us. That is what I find so strange. I can’t remember the faces of anyone. Usually, I have a very good memory for faces. But last night, everyone seemed to blend into one. Or perhaps there were just too many (orange) tanned platinum blondes. I don’t know. All I know is that after a shared taxi ride with Moriarty at 3am, I entered my marital bedroom, waking the husband briefly before he fell back to sleep. As he slept, I masturbated myself in the bathroom next door. Seeking the relief that had eluded me earlier.

A sensory overload, an indulgence, an education, an incredible experience. I just wish I wasn’t so damn shy.

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OmU

I love sitting in a darkened cinema, just as the lights have dimmed and a hush falls over the audience. That sense of anticipation clings to every rustle of popcorn and suppressed cough. Everyone watches the silvery grey rectangle flicker to life and willingly loses themselves in that blacked out room. I am particularly fond of foreign language films. The exotic sounds of different tongues, the initial concentration required to read the subtitles as they flash before your eyes and vie for your attention against the beautiful cinematography before you.

OmU. Original mit Untertitel. Original language with subtitles. Subtitles. If only every scene had subtitles.

I would love to read the subtitles playing across the screen as Moriarty and I engage in what seems like hours of silent eye contact, of touching, fondling. We have met a number of times over the last few weeks. One evening at my place. We shared wine, conversation, open conversation (because there is a difference). Our legs brushed, then touched under the table. He exerts a certain pressure with his thigh when he touches my leg. It sends a jolt through me. Every time. He reached over the table, never losing eye contact and cupped my breast in his hand. Just that sensation of skin on skin, of someone else’s hand touching my flesh, is one I crave the most. I can go for weeks without feeling another’s skin on mine. It distresses me. I feel myself curling up like an autumnal leaf, drying up and cracking. Such a simple sensation makes me feel the blood in my veins, makes me feel green, alive.

He told me not to wear my hair up when with him, placing his hand at the back of my head and taking hold of my hair, pulling it out of the hairband, but in a controlling way, so that my head was pulled down. It was the first time anyone has done that. Taken control. Physical control. It was an incredibly intensely erotic experience. Not a word was spoken, yet we seemed locked in conversation, our eyes never erring.

Last night was another night of looking, touching, but still playing by a set of rules that I no longer understand. We do not kiss, yet his hands often stray from my thigh to knee and gently part my legs as he traces a delicate line along the inside of my thigh to that soft flesh between stocking and knickers. Never breaking eye contact. In a public place. I feel as if he challenges me to a duel. A silent duel. Yet I am at a disadvantage, because I do not know the rules of the game. And there are no subtitles.

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Highs and lows

This week has been marked by a series of highs and lows.

One evening spent in the company of Moriarty and my closest female friend, both of whom know about this blog and yet still talk to me. We sat in a room with a view over the city of London, watching the sky turn from pink to violet with golden whisps of cloud and finally black. The conversation was open, sexual, sensual and honest. A rare meeting of minds. Not that we all share the same opinion, but somehow at that moment in that space we were all free to talk. There were moments when I felt suspended, in a glass bubble. Given the topics of conversation I left that space feeling incredibly elated, horny and generally alive.

Picture the same setting the next evening. I invited the economist to join me. He brought the drinks and we sat next to one another looking over the skyline before us. We had briefly kissed on the lips when he first arrived, more out of habit and I tried to withdraw, wean myself off him. It was awkward at first. I think we both knew what the outcome of the evening would be. He apologised for ignoring me completely at the party. I told him it would be easier if we agreed to just be friends. He admitted he wasn’t able to cope with both of us at the same time. It was amicable, sweet.  But I couldn’t bring myself to look into his eyes, and so adjusted my chair and stared out over the cityscape before me. We listened to music and chatted on and off. There were moments of silence, of sadness. I felt a big space inside. It got late and so we left. As we said goodbye outside, we hugged briefly and he asked when I could introduce him to a friend of mine, a possible business contact for him. That threw me. My instant reaction was one of feeling used, but then he continued that it was just another way of asking when he was going to see me.

That cycle home was cold, damp and difficult. I felt as if I had no energy, my legs, head, heart felt like lead. I knew the husband would be at home and so tried to force myself to smile as I reached the house. He was still working and so I said a brief hello and went straight upstairs to bed. I collapsed and fell asleep, the weight of my decision pressing me into the sheets.

Checking my email before drifting off, I saw a message from older lover suggesting a drink next week. Perhaps this lowest of lows will be followed by another high. But for now, I stand below ground.

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The unexpected

It was a late night. An evening I would prefer to forget.

A party, jointly organised with the economist, at his club. The same club we spent an afternoon together, touching, kissing, talking and deciding to have an affair all those months ago. He had warned me she was coming. That initial stab of jealousy had become a constant knot in my stomach. I had spent days trying to gloss over that fact, trying to persuade myself I didn’t care. It didn’t matter. Yet as I walked into the club last night, finding just the two of them (no other guests had arrived yet), I couldn’t help but feel a wave of panic hit me. I wanted to turn and bolt. Instead, we greeted and hugged. Their cocktails arrived. He had ordered her a ‘Perfect Lady’. I felt sick.

He disappeared for 5 minutes, leaving just her and me. I made inane small talk, trying desperately to think of topics to discuss and taking deep sips of my G&T to numb the senses. Once other guests arrived, I mingled with them, keeping a safe distance. The economist and I barely spoke all evening. At the end of the evening, they left together. I still have the image of them walking arm in arm down the street. And I still feel sick.

The prospect of spending a weekend away with them and Moriarty in a few weeks time fills me with horror. I didn’t expect to feel like this.

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Looking, but no touching

Pavlov and his dogs might a have a thing or two to say about this.

Moriarty and I have a creative project we are working on together over the coming months. Without going into too much detail, it involves him in front of the camera and me behind. We had our first session yesterday afternoon. As it was the first shoot, I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. I had some general ideas of how it could work, but wanted to see how he felt and respond to his mood. He had no qualms stripping naked and standing before me. It is always an interesting dynamic between model and artist. Trust, respect and a conscious effort not to let your mind wander all come into play.

It occurred to me that he is the first man I have photographed naked. That may have explained the slight flush in my cheeks. It is also rare that you have the opportunity to just look at someone else’s body. I loved finding the shadows and shapes of his torso, tracing the lines of his thighs, calf muscles and shoulders. Naturally, my eyes lingered on his cock. And this is where I think Pavlov might be right:

After years of only seeing the male member in the bedroom (or at least as part of a sexual scenario), my immediate reaction/desire was to touch. At some instinctual level, I had the desire to kneel before him and take his cock in my mouth. It was a strange, unnerving desire. I am guessing this is the bedroom equivalent to Pavlov and his dogs.

Of course I did not touch his cock, I merely observed and documented. But, it has certainly got me salivating.

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